


Scars Don't Matter

by MimiWritesHerFandoms



Series: Dean Winchester and Donna Hanscum [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8234692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiWritesHerFandoms/pseuds/MimiWritesHerFandoms
Summary: Takes place immediately after Apple Pie Life. Dean and Donna deal with the aftermath of their encounter with the Djinn.





	

Two hours, forty-four minutes and twenty-five seconds that he had to wait while she was in surgery.

Sixteen hours and thirteen minutes that the doctors at that damn hospital kept her in ICU, refusing to tell him anything because he wasn’t  _ family _ , refusing to tell him  _ shit _ , no matter how pissed off he got.

Twenty-one hours and seven minutes before Donna was coherent enough to tell them that she wanted Dean in the room with her. Six minutes later, she demanded it and three minutes after that he was sitting beside her, her hand held tightly in his.

Three days and fourteen hours passed before they’d let her leave, the cracked ribs loosely wrapped, five stitches in her head, and more than he wanted to count in the wound on her stomach where she’d been stabbed by the Djinn as she’d tried to escape.

Dean took her home five days and nineteen hours after the Djinn took them.

* * *

He stayed with her, wanting to be there for her as long she needed him. He tried to act like it was no big deal, like he’d do what he was doing for anyone. He even tried to tell himself that he didn’t care, that he could walk away whenever he wanted to. Except he didn’t believe that, not really. He didn’t think Donna believed it, either.

It surprised him how easily he slid into Donna’s life, how natural it seemed. It sounded cheesy, so cheesy he couldn’t even say it out loud, in fact he kept it to himself; but it was like they fit together like two halves of the same whole. It had never occurred to him that he would find something like this, ever, especially not now, when he didn’t expect it. He was sure it would disappear at any moment, poof away like a dream. Like something a Djinn created.

They didn’t talk about it, what happened with the Djinn, what either of them saw during the time they were caught in the dream world created by the bloodthirsty monster. Dean wasn’t ready to tell her what he’d seen, so he didn’t ask her what her dream had been. Maybe the truth was, he was afraid it wouldn’t be him and he wasn’t sure how he would deal with that.  _ If _  he could deal with that.   

Because the truth was, despite what he told Sam, maybe he did want that picket fence, that apple pie life. Or at the very least, someone who understood, someone he could always come back to. Maybe he thought that Donna got it, that maybe, just maybe, Donna might be his lighthouse in the storm of his life. As a sheriff, she understood the need to keep people safe, to take care of others, to take out the bad guys. It didn’t hurt that she knew all about the monsters. It didn’t hurt that he might be falling for her. 

* * *

The digital clock on the microwave said it was three a.m. when he found her sitting at her kitchen table, wrapped in her favorite pink bathrobe, a carton of ice cream in front of her. He leaned against the doorjamb, watching her, this woman who had unexpectedly wormed her way into his life and somehow managed to take up permanent residence.

“You can stop standin’ there, being all creepy and starin’ at me,” Donna murmured. 

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. He crossed the room to stand beside her, planted his palms flat on the table and leaned down to look into her eyes. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“I’m fine, why?” she mumbled, scooping up a huge bite of ice cream, staring at him almost defiantly as she wrapped her lips around the spoon.

But she wasn’t fine and he knew it. “Come on,” he said, taking Donna’s elbow and pulling her to her feet. 

She went with him reluctantly, shuffling her feet, letting him lead her to the other room. He gestured toward the couch. She shoved the blankets and pillow of his makeshift bed out of the way and sat down.

He sat down next to her and waited. He’d never been one for starting a conversation, or insisting on an explanation. With Sam, if he waited long enough, his brother would just start spouting off whatever was bothering him. He thought Donna might do the same.

“What did you see?” she asked quietly after a little while.

“What did I see?” Dean repeated. “When the Djinn had us?”

“Yeah,” Donna said, turning to look at him. “What kind of dream life were you living?”

Dean took a deep breath, suddenly feeling self-conscious. There it was, the thing they hadn’t discussed, hadn’t talked about, the subject he’d intentionally avoided. He was still uncomfortable with the thought of admitting that his dream had been a life with her. Instead of answering right away, he cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably, sat forward, his elbows on his knees, and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“Donna -”

“I always thought I was living the life I wanted,” she interrupted him. “But I guess I wasn’t.”

“No?” he asked.

She shook her head, refusing to look at him, picking at a loose thread on her robe. “It was...it was definitely not what I expected.” She blew out a breath and smiled, though he could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how you do this, Dean.”

Dean pulled her into his arms, his lips pressed to her temple. “Whiskey and a lot of denial,” he murmured. “That’s how I deal.”

Donna flattened her hands over her stomach, rubbing the bulky bandage resting just above her hip. “But the scars -” she exhaled. “I’m already -” She cleared her throat and swiped at the tears now flowing down her face. “They’re so ugly, I don’t understand, why...why...would you want anything to do with me? Between the weight and now the scars, I’m just not...“ She swallowed, loudly, choking off a sob. “You should stop feeling obligated to be here, quit feeling like you have to take care of -”

“Stop it.” Dean put his hands over hers, his words biting and sharp, cutting her off. 

Donna’s head came up, a grimace on her face. “Don’t tell me I’m beautiful no matter what, Dean, don’t do it. I don’t want to hear it.”

He released her and sat back, contemplating what he would say, what he would do, wanting so badly to make her understand that it wasn’t like that, that he cared for her because she was  _ Donna _  and she was enough. After a few seconds, he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor.

He pointed to a three inch scar just beneath the ribs on his right side. “Werewolf got me, almost two years ago.” He turned around, facing away from her, pointed to his back. “That big scar on the left, that’s from a rugaru, I got in the way of the blowtorch when Sam was taking it out. See that puckered mark on my shoulder? Got between Cas and an angel blade.” He stood up, yanked down his pajama pants and pointed to his upper thigh, where a nearly seven inch scar ran from just above his knee to his inner thigh. “This? I went a few too many rounds with a demon who was determined to kill me. He almost succeeded.” He pulled his pants back up, kneeled in front of Donna, and took her hands. 

“Look at me, Donna,” he murmured.

Her head came up slowly, the half smile still on her face, the tears still in her eyes. She shrugged, almost apologetically, opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again, shaking her head.

But he didn’t need her to talk, he needed her to listen. “I’m covered in scars. Those are just some of the ones you can see on the outside,” Dean said. “But more than that, I’m filled with scars, inside, so many it’s fucking scary. I’m so scarred that no one in their right mind should want anything to do with me. Do they make me ugly? Do you want me to leave?”

“Jeezum crow, Dean, you’re being ridiculous,” she sighed.

“No more than you,” he said, returning to his seat beside her. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down onto the couch beside him, their bodies close together. He tugged the robe down and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, sliding his lips along her collarbone to her neck, and up her jaw to her mouth. He ran his thumb over the faint scar along the edge of her hairline, then he let his hand drift down her side to the bandage still covering her damaged stomach. He gently caressed it, still kissing her, still holding her.

“Scars don’t matter,” he whispered, his lips on hers, her breath warm against his face. He put his fingers under her chin, tilted her head back, forcing her to look at him. “Understand?”

Donna nodded. “Scars don’t matter.” She threw one arm over him and let her head fall against his chest. She was quiet for a few minutes, so quiet he thought she’d fallen asleep. He sat up and was reaching for the blanket by his feet when he heard it.

“Don’t go.”

Dean pulled the blanket over them and returned to his original position. He tangled his fingers in her hair, pulled her to him, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I ain’t going anywhere, sweetheart.”

 


End file.
